At the Cost of A Penny
by ravenr1r2r3
Summary: Five dead. Four kidnapped. Three unlikely teammates. Two organizations. One diabolical mastermind. S.H.I.E.L.D. has recruited the help of Sherlock Holmes, Dean Winchester, and the Doctor in order to stop the destruction of the universe, but at what cost?
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: no seriousness was put into the making of this fic. Seriously. This would have never left the safety of my notebook if it weren't for the insistence of my friends. With that, a special thanks to my betas, Izzy Dixon and RedRibbonsGirl, for keeping these characters in line.**

**As usual, the characters belong to their respective owners, no matter how cruel and heartless they may be.**

* * *

"Could we make this quick? I'm very busy, very busy."

"I understand." Director Nick Fury watched the strange man leaf through one of the hundreds of stacks of paper that crowded the apartment. "Believe me, this is important. I assume you are aware of the events that took place in New York and Greenwich?"

"Of course I am," he retorted. "Aliens? Pah! Nothing but rubbish. Don't tell me that this is the 'important business' you came to discuss with me, because I have better uses for my time than to listen to anymore intergalactic nonsense."

Fury ground his teeth, checking his temper. Clearly this guy was teetering on the edge. The frantic movements as he rifled through files and books, the desperation in his darting eyes, and over a hundred other panicked idiosyncrasies showed how close he was to a mental breakdown. If Fury was to get what he came for, he'd have to remain cool.

"I'd hate to burst your bubble," he said, "but aliens are very real."

Uttering a noise between a growl and a scoff, the man rounded on the Director and said, "If that is all you wish to discuss with me, then you can see yourself out." Then he dismissed Fury with a flippant gesture and resumed his digging, muttering to himself as he did so.

Fury didn't bat an eye. "I have proof."

"I don't care about the poorly constructed laser beam or ion cannon or whatever ridiculous device you obviously built in your—"

_CLUNK!_

A large misshapen chunk of metal landed on the desk in front of his nose. The man glanced up at the object for a moment for a moment, analyzing it, and then glanced away.

"Clearly aluminum."

"Is it?"

The tone in Fury's voice made him pause. He looked back up at the metal, spotting the bluish sheen for the first time.

Hiding a smirk, Fury watched the man jump up and whisk the metal into the make-shift lab that was the kitchen. He waited patiently as the metal was thoroughly examined, scraped, dunked in different chemicals, burned, re-examined, and then examined again.

The result:

"Alright, what is it?"

Fury allowed himself a small, self-satisfied chuckle just to piss the guy off and plucked what remained of the metal from the man's hand. "We don't know," Fury admitted. "Came off one the ships that attacked New York."

Standing a little taller so he towered over the Director, the man narrowed his piercing blue eyes at Fury as if to pry away his secrets with just a look.

"Why are you here?" he rumbled suspiciously.

Bouncing the alien material in his hand, Fury met the man's stare evenly. "I've heard a lot about you. Your ability to know everything about a person at first glance is unparalleled, and you have an almost 100% success rate.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm here to talk to you about the Avengers Initiative."

* * *

"Not interested."

Coulson set his beer on the table. "Sir, I know you're going through a tough time—believe me, I get it—but at least take a moment to consider—"

"There's nothing to consider." The drunkard belched loudly. "I'm not joining your Power Rangers Squad."

"Avengers."

"Whatever. Count me out."

Coulson felt his patience wearing thin. He was never good at the art of subtle manipulation like Hill or Romanov, but this was the true test of his abilities as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

_I knew I should've brought Mae,_ he thought to himself. Too late now.

Coulson leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands. "Look, Mr. Winchester—"

"—No please, call me Dean," he said gesturing with his beer. "Mr. Winchester was my old man."

"Ah yes, John Winchester. Son of Henry and Meredith Winchester, died a few years back from injuries sustained in a car accident, though I suspect that's not the whole story."

"How do you know about that?" Dean demanded, eyes suddenly sharp and alert.

Coulson smiled. "I know a lot about you, Dean, and your companions. More than you think."

* * *

"How is that possible?" he asked in a hushed whisper.

Agent Hill shrugged. "Rumors mostly. Believe me, you're not the easiest person to track down."

The man—or at least, she's assuming it's male—tapped his foot nervously and ran a hand through his spikey mouse-brown hair. His whole vibrated with a nervous energy, like he really needed to cut back on the espressos. Poor thing must be terrified out of his mind.

Hill decided to fall back on the simplest yet most effective tool in her repertoire.

"Sir," she began, "I understand that you're distressed—"

"Distressed?" He shouted, going from anxious to borderline hostile in under two seconds. Hill's hand shot to the gun at her hip. "_Distressed?_ Y-y-y-y-you—No! Don't pretend to know how I feel, okay? Because you don't!"

"Actually, I do." The words left Hill's mouth before they were even a thought. She wasn't exactly sure where they came from, but she rolled with it. "I know exactly how you feel. Losing someone, it's not easy."

He inhaled sharply. "How do you know about . . . ?"

"Like I said, rumors mostly. But then we got a name and the rest is his—oh, sorry . . ."

"S'okay . . ." he muttered then glanced her way. "So . . . who did you lose?"

She blinked. "A dear friend of mine," she replied, "but you know what?" Hill took a step forward and put a hand on his arm. "He wasn't gone for long. I found my friend again and S.H.I.E.L.D. can find your friend, too. With your help."

The man hesitated. The nervous energy from before fled his body all at once, leaving behind a weary sort of sadness. He sighed heavily and looked up at Agent Hill with a modicum of hope in his eyes.

"Can you really find Rose Tyler?" asked the Doctor.

* * *

Dean erupted into a fit of laughter.

"You think _I_ need_ your_ help?" he snorted. "Please! I've been fightin' on my own since I was in diapers. What've _you _been doin' all your life? Drivin' limos?"

"You're really not getting it, are you?" Coulson said. "I have access to information on everyone and everything in the entire world. Cult groups, secret organizations—you name it, we can find it."

Dean snorted again and downed the rest of his beer before standing and walking towards the tiny kitchen. "Thanks," he said, dunking the beer bottle in in the trash, "but no thanks. I don't trust you government types. The door's over there."

Sighing, Coulson stood and walked to the door. "Alright," he said. "If you're sure about this, I won't waste any more of your time."

"Alrighty then. See you never."

Just as he was about to leave, Coulson paused under the doorway. He turned back and said, "I know the supernatural is real, Mr. Winchester. I've seen it with my own eyes. That's why I find it easy to believe that you and your brother are demon hunters and your friend is an angel. What I _do _find hard to believe is that you aren't trying to use whatever means necessary to find out who took them."

And with that, Coulson left, closing the door behind him.

Well, almost.

A large hand stopped the door inches away from being shut. Not even mildly startled, Coulson turned.

Dean glowered at him from the narrow opening.

"I am NOT wearing spandex," he said.

* * *

They were at an impasse. Sherlock, still not convinced, regarded the Director suspiciously and said, "If you know so much, what do you need me for?"

"Helps to have a fresh set of eyes," Fury replied. "That and most of my best men are currently occupied with . . . other things."

"I see . . . Well, as _fascinating_ as this all sounds, and I mean that in the loosest sense of the word, I'm afraid I am also currently occupied with a case that requires my undivided attention and I can't spare any time running around with your team of Power Rangers."

"Avengers."

"Whatever."

"On the contrary, Mr. Holmes," Fury said, ignoring the jibe, "you have the exact amount of time for both, because our case _is_ your case. More or less."

Sherlock scowled. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Just that. We're after the same people, so wouldn't it make sense to join forces? Help each other out."

"Who says I need your help?"

Casting his eye about the messy apartment and the X-ed out pictures tacked up on the wall, Fury scoffed. "No offense, Mr. Holmes, but you're way out of your element here."

Sherlock glanced down at the chunk of metal in Fury's hand and, rolling his eyes, said, "You're not _seriously_ proposing that _aliens_ are involved?"

The Director didn't reply. Instead, he pocketed the metal and folded his arms.

"I'm only going to say this one more time," Fury said. "Join our group. Without S.H.I.E.L.D. you will never find these people, but S.H.I.E.L.D. can and will find them without you, even if it takes a little more time. However, time is of the essence, Mr. Holmes. The longer we take tracking these people down, the more lives will be in danger.

"Including that of your friend, John Watson."

Sherlock twitched involuntarily, and Fury knew he struck a nerve. Good, now they were getting somewhere.

Keeping his voice under control, Sherlock huffed and said, "Alright, fine. I'll play along for a little while. But the moment I suspect this is going nowhere, I'm leaving."

Fury smiled. "Agreed. If we're done here, I have a car waiting outside."

"Hold on," Sherlock said, taking a step forward. "If you know who took John, then tell me."

The Director held the door open for him. "I'll explain everything once we meet up with the others."

"Others?"

"I did say Aven_gers_, didn't I? Congratulations, Mr. Holmes. As of today, you get new playmates."

* * *

Somewhere beyond human reach, a man stood lost in the sea of his own memories. Staring out the window of his cushy bedroom, the man slowly pulled a black glove over the red sleeve of his lab coat. To his right, a pair of black goggles sat on the nightstand.

A soft knock came at the door, followed by a gentle creak. Someone poked their head into the room.

"Sir?" he said. "The others are waiting for you. Are you ready?"

Without turning, the man replied, "Yeah. I'll be right there."

Another creak and the door closed with a click, leaving the man alone with his thoughts and the rising sun before him.

He pulled the goggles over his eyes.

"A brand new day. . . ."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi hi hi! Sorry for the really late update; thanks to school and other such distractions, updates will be infrequent. However, I will write as much as possible and post as soon I can! Special thanks to everyone who Reviewed, Followed, and Favorited—it's greatly appreciated.**

**I own none of the characters in this story.**

**And with that, the story continues!**

* * *

Our heroes consist of a consulting detective with nonexistent social skills, a smartass demon hunter with a drinking problem, and an emotionally unstable time lord with gravity-defying hair, all sitting at the conference table of a secretive organization's even more secretive helicarrier.

It's like the start of a bad joke.

There was a charged silence at the conference table. Not a word was spoken as the trio waited for Fury or Coulson or _anyone _to come and explain what was going on.

Upon completing his analytical one-over of his new "playmates", Sherlock glanced about the helicarrier, unimpressed. _A bit much for a base of operations,_ he thought, _almost silly_. The Doctor, too, was unimpressed by the helicarrier after spending most of his life on the TARDIS. Dean, on the other hand, was about as excited as a kid at Christmas. Not that he showed it of course, not with the others looking so nonchalant. Still, his fingertips itched to fiddle with the tantalizing buttons on one of the control pads, especially the big red ones that said DANGER. Only Sherlock had bothered to leaf through the large folder Fury had left for them to read, if you could call it reading. The detective had simply flipped the pages one right after the other in quick succession before closing the file and sliding it back to the center of the table.

That was half an hour ago.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents manning the helicarrier ignored them for the most part, which only added to Dean's growing boredom. Twice he tried to hit on a female agent; twice he wasn't even spared a passing glance. Even the Doctor and Sherlock were growing restless.

Finally, Dean couldn't take it anymore.

"So," he said, "giant flying ship. Crazy, huh?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Dean gave him a pointed look. "What? Don't tell me you're not the _least_ bit psyched about being on a spaceship."

"First of all," Sherlock said, "this is not a spaceship as we are clearly not in space and second of all, if you _must _fill the silence at least fill it with something more intelligent."

Dean squared his jaw. Turning to the Doctor, Dean threw his thumb over his shoulder at Sherlock and said, "Who pissed in _his_ bitch flakes this morning?"

"Please don't drag me into this," said the Doctor.

Sherlock shot Dean a cold look, "Why are you even here? What could you possibly have that's of any relevance to this case?"

"A lot more than you," Dean retorted.

"Could I have a biscuit?" the Doctor asked a passing agent. "Or at least some tea? No? Okay. . . ."

"So what do you do, huh?" asked Dean. "From the ego, I'd guess a psychiatrist or a lawyer or something that makes a crap ton of money."

"A private detective, actually," Sherlock said. "How much is a 'crap ton' anyway?"

"Woah, woah, woah. You walk around like the queen of England yet all you are is Detective freaking McGruff!" Dean burst into laughter. "HA! That's rich!"

A vein throbbed in Sherlock's temple. "This coming from the _boy_ who runs around playing superhero with his baby brother. I highly doubt that pays well, if at all."

Dean's jaw went slack. "How do you know about my brother?"

"Oh, it wasn't hard really. Judging from the look in your eyes—" he gestured to Dean and the Doctor "—you've both lost someone recently, one of the key reasons we were chosen to begin with. You come off as a real ladies' man so I doubt you would have that look over a lover so my guess is a close relative, most likely a sibling. 'But how did you know it was a _younger brother_?' you wonder. Ah, now _that's _the trickier part. First I sort out the sibling's gender, which brings me back to your promiscuity. Men who grow up in a house with at least one sister tend to have more respect for the female gender, something you clearly lack.

"As for whether your brother was younger or not, that was just a lucky guess. At first I was inclined to believe you were the younger sibling, however you wear the same expression as someone else I know. I usually don't go by such things but I figured it was worth a try."

"Yeah?" Dean said tightly. "And who do I remind you of?"

"No one important," Sherlock replied flippantly. "Oh, that's another similarity you both share."

The Doctor's eyes darted between the hunter and the detective. _Maybe if I excuse myself to go to the loo, _he thought to himself,_ I can disappear before things get out of hand. . . . _

"I'll have you know," Dean said, angrily waggling a finger at the detective, "that I fight monsters for a living—a thankless job, might I add—so that people like you can walk about without being maimed by things like demons and vampires and psychotic unicorns."

_Too late._

"Vampires?" Sherlock scoffed. "Demons? You must be incredibly stupid to think I would believe that nonsense. It's all rubbish."

"Oh yeah?" Dean rolled up his sleeve and revealed a nasty scar that arced from his elbow to the underside of his forearm. "Got this sucker from an _acheri_. And this—" he tugged down the collar of his shirt. "—came from a drunk leprechaun. True story. Now THIS," Dean lifted up his shirt and twisted around to show a scar that snaked from the small of his back around to an inch under his belly button, "this I'm actually a little proud of. Not entirely sure how I got it though, but I'm pretty sure there was a witch involved. But the all-time freakiest scar of them all would be this bad boy right here—"

"That's enough!" Sherlock said before Dean had a chance to remove his shirt completely. "You're a reckless fool who's been in many dangerous situations, we get it. That still does not prove the existence of these fairy tales. Next you'll be telling me that aliens are real too."

The Doctor, his back now ramrod-straight, scowled at Sherlock. "What do you have against aliens?!"

"Nothing, because they're not real. They exist only in the minds of overweight middle-aged men who still live in their parents' basement."

"Wha—?! They are completely real!" the Doctor said. "Believe me, I know better than anyone."

"In your delusions, perhaps. But here in the real world, there is no such thing as aliens. I will repeat this one last time for the more simple-minded in the audience, _there is no such thing as aliens or monsters._"

"That's it." Dean leapt across the table and grabbed at Sherlock. The Doctor, caught in between the two, shot to his feet and just barely missed catching a glancing blow from Dean's grabbing hands.

When Director Fury and Agent Coulson finally showed up, he found Dean with a firm grip on Sherlock's coat collar while the Doctor tried to pry them apart. Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose and another agent, who was wheeling in a large glass board, watched with jaw dropped as papers flew about the area in the wake of the pair's brawl.

"Take it back you son of a bitch!"

"Never!"

"TAKE IT BACK!"

"NO!"

A vein throbbed dangerously in Fury's right temple. He pulled a gun from the inside of his coat and fired one shot into the air. Everyone on deck took cover. Sherlock and Dean froze mid-strangle while the Doctor dropped to the floor. When no more shots followed, the Doctor poked his head over the table and snapped, "Are you out of your _bleeding_ mind?! That could've ricocheted!"

"They're blanks," Fury said frankly as he put the gun in its holster. "This is the special gun I use to get morons like you three to shut up. Now sit _down._"

The three immediately fell into their seats. Fury huffed. He had hoped that this would be simpler than managing the original Avengers, but clearly that wasn't going to happen. As if reading his mind, Coulson leaned in and whispered, "With all due respect, sir, I'm not dying again. Just thought I would put that out there."

Fury sighed and stepped forward. "Now that we've got that out of our systems, we can get on to the debriefing."

Dean burst into a fit of childish giggles. Fury almost threw them all off the helicarrier. Instead he inhaled deeply, mentally counted to ten, and gestured to his subordinates. One pressed a button and the glass sprang to life with several blue images covering the screen. Dean was one part excited and one part disappointed. (He had hoped for a holographic projection.) Fury dismissed the underlings and opened a file on the screen. Five images popped up.

Sherlock's eyes lit up.

_Male. Thirty-one. American. Clean-shaven. Works in an office. Unmarried, but starting out in a relationship, most likely someone from work. Near-sighted, but refuses to wear his specs. _

_Female. Forty-nine. Irish, but lives in America. Pre-menopausal. School teacher—no, a headmaster. Recently divorced with no intention of getting into another relationship. _

_Male. Twenty-three. Australian. Just out of uni. Currently unemployed, undoubtedly swimming in student loans. Single. _

_Male. Nineteen. American. Drug-dealer. In and out of prison for at least three years. Wouldn't hurt a fly._

_Female. Twenty-two. British. Single. Waitress—oh . . ._

Slowly leaning back in his chair, Sherlock put his hands together and rested his fingertips on his lips. Dean glanced his way and wondered if he was praying.

"Six weeks ago," Fury said, "these five died under only mildly mysterious circumstances. All died in different parts of the world, with the exception of Jeremy Keatley and Brigid Quinn—" he pointed to the nineteen year old American and the forty-nine year old Irishwoman. "—who died in different areas of the United States. There is nothing connecting the five deaths in anyway, except for this."

With one swipe of the finger, the pictures slid off-screen and were replaced by an image of a bloody red splotch, followed by pictures of the dead bodies. The three men simultaneously narrowed their eyes at the splotch—it had enough shape to be an imprint of some kind but was distorted enough for the image to be unclear. In some ways, it looked like a badly smudged paw print.

Coulson turned to the group. "This is only reason the victims were put on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar in the first place. The bodies were found torn apart, mostly at the throat, in locked rooms. There was no evidence of a break-in or a struggle, and only one paw print was left at the scene. . . . Is there a problem, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean snapped to attention. "What? Why?"

"Your face was all twitchy and you wouldn't sit still."

"Not to mention you kept grumbling under your breath," the Doctor added.

"Oh." _Well this is awkward. _"Nothing. ADHD acting up."

"You don't have ADHD," muttered Sherlock.

Dean turned a cutting glare at Sherlock. "And how the hell could you _possibly _know that?"

Nick reached for his "Shut up" gun and everyone fell quiet. Coulson looked at Dean. "If you have an idea to share, then please share it. We're all ears."

Everyone turned to Dean and waited for a response. Dean opened his mouth, promptly closed it, and then scratched his head. To stall for time, he asked, "How old is the kid there?"

"Nineteen."

Dean waved a hand. "Never mind. Not possible."

"In my experience," Fury said, "it isn't wise to disregard the 'impossible'."

Expectant eyes fell on Dean again. He swallowed. Sometimes he really hated talking to normal people. _Sam always knew what to say_, he thought then immediately back-tracked. _Just do it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. _With a sigh, Dean folded his arms and said frankly, "I think it's a hellhound."

The Doctor's eyes widened. Coulson and Fury remained expressionless.

Sherlock started threw is hands in the air and rolled his eyes skyward. "Why am I not surprised?" he said.

"Now hang on, Mr. Holmes," Fury said, holding up a hand to Sherlock. "Hear the man out before you write him off. This is a team effort—remember that."

Clearly irritated, Sherlock clenched his jaw and gestured for Dean to continue. A bit more confident—if not smug—Dean sat up straighter. "Hellhounds are invisible to the human eye and can go anywhere they want undetected, which would explain why there was no evidence of breaking-and-entering. They usually go for the throat; I've seen this," he said gesturing to the gory images, "a thousand times . The only problem I have is that paw print. I've never seen a hellhound leave something behind—besides a body of course."

"Then what makes you think this is impossible?" Coulson asked.

"Hellhounds only come after people who've sold their soul," Dean replied in full teacher-mode. "Usually those deals have a ten year grace period; I doubt nine year olds are going around making deals with demons."

Coulson turned to Fury. "What do you think, sir?"

Fury looked at the agent from the corner of his eye and replied, "I'm not ready to rule out anything just yet, so this is worth considering."

Dean shot a victorious glance at Sherlock, who shot a cold one right back. The Doctor quietly slid his chair slightly away from them.

"There is one more thing," Fury said before they got out of hand again. "One of the agents I had working on this case went missing investigating the latest murder."

"What happened to him?" the Doctor asked.

"Her," Coulson corrected. "Agent Wrotham was found a week later ten thousand miles away from where we lost her signal. Let's just say the only way we were able to ID her was through her dental records, and even that was sketchy."

The Doctor swallowed.

"Her last transmission was short. She knew she was being hunted, but by what, we don't know for certain. Whatever it is, it's not human."

Sherlock's brow furrowed at this. Dean and the Doctor, however, were not fazed in the slightest.

"That's where you three come in," Fury said. "You will investigate the circumstances surrounding the five victims' deaths, find out who is responsible, and return with any and all information you can find.

"You were chosen because you all specialize in the strange and the unexplainable. Work together on this and you will succeed. I'm counting on you."

* * *

It was dark when Sam finally woke up, though he wished he hadn't. A bloody, metallic taste filled his mouth, his lip hurt . . . hell, his everything hurt. With a groan, Sam forced his protesting joints to push his body off the cold, hard ground.

Slowly the past couple of hours started to come back to him. Two anonymous tips, claiming they found a suspect in two completely different locations; Dean going to one while Sam searched the other; an empty doctor's office; a sudden blow to the head. . . . Cas might've been there—

Oh God.

"Cas," Sam rasped. _"Cas!"_

"Here . . ." came the weak reply. Sam almost collapsed with relief. He wasn't alone after all.

"Where are you?" Sam said. "I can't see a thing."

"Over here." There was a twinge of pain in the angel's voice.

Frowning, Sam asked, "Can you walk?"

". . . . No," Cas replied tightly, as if irritated by his circumstance. "I can't move." Dread crept into Sam's heart. Whoever was responsible for this was able to subdue an angel.

_One thing at a time, Sam_, he thought to himself. "Sit tight, pal. I'll come to you."

Castiel grunted in response.

Steeling himself, Sam painstakingly pushed himself to his feet. He flinched as a scab on his leg broke with each movement. Once he was upright, Sam scanned the darkness hoping to make out Cas's form through the gloom. No such luck.

"Could you shed a little light on the subject?" he asked.

Quiet.

"Cas?"

"I can't," the angel said. "My powers . . ."

Sam fought the rising panic. "They're gone?!"

Castiel exhaled slowly. "No, not gone. I just . . . I can't reach them. My head hurts."

"Okay then. You'll just have to guide me to you. . . . You _can_ see right?"

". . ."

"Cas?"

The angel sighed. "No, I can't."

Sam huffed and said, "That's okay, I'll just come to you."

Cas snorted. "And how to you propose you do that? If _I _can't see in this darkness then I know for a fact you can't."

"Your confidence in me is overwhelming as always."

"You're welcome."

Taking a deep breath, Sam squinted. He had been in thousands of dark places before and yet for some reason his eyes refused to adjust. _You know,_ a nagging little voice in the back of his mind said, _Dean always gets himself out of situations like this. Think, Sam—what would Dean do?_

"Cas," Sam said, suddenly getting an idea. "Marco."

No reply. Sam frowned and turned in a different direction.

"Marco!"

Still nothing.

"Cas! Where the hell are you?!"

"Right here," Cas said with a twinge of annoyance. "I haven't moved."

Sam swung around and, with arms outstretched, walked a bit faster towards Cas's voice. "Then why didn't you say anything?"

"My name is Castiel. I don't know who this Marco person is."

"Marco Polo. It's a game. Let's try again—Marco!"

". . ."

"_Cas!_"

"I'm not sure how to respond."

"Oh for the love of—"

Sam stumbled over something large and heavy, landing on his—apparently—sprained wrist. Sam cried out. Cas groaned in pain.

"You found me."

As Sam and Cas painstakingly pulled away from each other, a second groan echoed from across the room. They froze.

"Who's there?" Sam demanded.

"Hmnugh . . . Wuss goin' on? Where . . . where'm I . . . ?"

The voice was masculine, an older man by Sam's reckoning, and . . . Australian?

"Bloody hell, my head hurts. . . ."

British. Definitely British.

"Who are you?" Cas said.

"What's going on? Why are we here?" the man replied groggily.

"No clue," Sam said, ignoring the fact he dodged the question.

"Sam," Castiel whispered. "There's one other person in here."

"How can you tell?" Sam whispered back. "I thought you couldn't reach your grace."

"Not completely, but I can still sense things. There's a fourth person in here, over there."

Sam waited for a few seconds then rolled his eyes. "Cas, I can't see where you're pointing."

"Oh, right. Here." Cas fumbled for Sam's hand and, taking it, pointed it towards where the fourth person was laying. Wincing at the touch, Sam called out, "Is anyone else in here? Hello?"

A whimper sounded from the area Cas pointed him to. It didn't sound too far. Sam was immediately on the alert.

"Hey, are you hurt?" Sam asked earnestly. "Can you move?"

"I'm a doctor," the man said a bit more clearly.

The person groaned and rasped, ". . . d . . . doctor . . ."

Another Brit, this time a woman. Sam reached out and gripped Cas by the trenchcoat, growling, "Cas, can you tell if she's in trouble or not?"

"Aside from her not explicitly saying otherwise, no."

"Then you need to get me over there."

"Why?"

Sam sighed impatiently. "Because she could be seriously hurt, Cas, and since we're all stuck in this hole together, the smart thing to do is look out for each other."

"Oh. Right."

Making sure that they brushed each other's sides at all times, Cas and Sam crawled over to the woman. Just as Sam thought, she wasn't too far from them—a mere six paces away. It was a miracle Sam didn't trip over her earlier. Cas placed Sam's hand on what he pretty sure was the woman's back. As it carefully trailed upward, Sam's hand met with matted hair with a smooth neck underneath. Sam rubbed his fingers together.

They were wet.

"D-doctor," croaked Sam. "She's bleeding."

Grunting echoed softly as the doctor pushed himself onto his hands and knees. In a dry but strong voice, he ordered, "Try to find the wound and put pressure on it. And keep talking; I'll be right there."

Sam, ignoring the pain in his wrist, gently flipped the woman onto her back and ran his fingers lightly over her face, all the while urging her to wake up. She whimpered, ". . . doc . . . tor . . ." and he could feel her face twitch. Sam froze when his fingertips grazed a thick lump sitting just above the eyebrow. Must be a scab.

"Your grace would be really helpful right about now," Sam muttered to Cas. The angel said nothing.

"I'm here," the doctor said, coming up to the other side of the woman. "Did you find it?"

"Found a scab over her eye," Sam reported, "but nothing else yet. Do you have a lighter or something?"

"Hang on . . ."

No one spoke over the sound of quiet shuffling and the occasional swear. "Damn," he muttered once, "gun's gone." Woah, Sam hadn't even thought to check for his weapons until just then. He patted down his usual places—both his gun and knife were gone. Even the tiny pick he started keeping in his shoe was gone. He was almost surprised.

"Here!" Sam jumped at the doctor's victorious exclamation. Suddenly a small bead of light sliced through the gloom, blinding everyone. Sam swore and flinched away. When his eyes stopped burning, Sam lowered his hands and squinted at the doctor. He wasn't nearly as old as Sam though he was, but his face was still haggard and worry-lined. The light made the lines sharper and his black eye sharper. His clothes were dusty and the sleeve of his jacket was torn. All in all, the doctor looked like crap.

Not that Sam looked any better. The doctor's eyes were wide and fixed on Sam's face, his mouth parted a bit. _If I look worse than I feel_, Sam thought, _then I must look worse than hell._

To his credit, the doctor recovered quickly and shined the light—which Sam noticed was a tiny flashlight on a keychain—on the woman's face. Out of all of them, she probably looked the worst. Her blond hair was tangled and splayed about her pale face like a bloodied halo. The gash extended from the top of her left eyebrow up diagonally to the hairline, just barely missing the temple. It scabbed over, but not before dribbling blood all over the left side of her face and down her neck.

While Sam's still-addled brain was swimming at the sight, the doctor checked for more injuries and took the woman's pulse. "Not as strong as I would like it," he reported, "but she'll live. I can't find any breaks or other cuts."

Sam let out a sigh of relief then grew tense again. "Do you have any idea what's going on?"

The doctor exhaled and said, "This is a kidnapping, I'm sure of it, but as to how or where or why, I haven't the foggiest."

"Great, so we're all in the same boat then." With a grunt, Sam readjusted himself into a sitting position and said, "I'm Sam Winchester, by the way. And this is Cas."

"John Watson. Nice to meet you."

Sam flinched. "Nice to meet you too, Watson."

"How long do you think we've been in here?" Cas asked.

John shined the light around the room. "Impossible to tell. There aren't any openings aside from those vents in the ceiling."

"Vents?" Sam looked up quickly and huffed in disappointment. The two vents that allowed air into the room were way too small even for the woman to fit through, let alone three grown men.

With a heavy sigh, Cas repositioned himself into a sitting position. "We better get comfortable then," he said, "because we're stuck here until someone gets us."


End file.
